


The Twelve Days You Gave To Me

by Carolinecalflo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Christmas, Christmas Time, E/R - Freeform, Holiday, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Okay so it's mostly amis stuff and subtle e/r, and so does nonnymous, because i love them, but i did a damn good job making sure that all the amis, enjoltaire - Freeform, got the attention they deserved, with a little less subtlety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinecalflo/pseuds/Carolinecalflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis make their way through the 12 days leading up to Christmas with determination only the Amis could muster, a tree named Patria, an unhappy tenant, ominous swans and a road trip gone awry, and much, much more holiday fun. (A gift fic, the ending will not make sense because of this, sorry!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Days You Gave To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonnymus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonnymus/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for Nonnymus so silly references (like strategic napping and Love Actually) will be included, but I don't expect them to cause any trouble.  
> (And because I no longer had a length limit after Chapter 6 I might add that Chapters 7 and onward are better (?) and more descriptive)

 

 

 

**On the First Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me**

**A Partridge in a Pear Tree**

It was Courfeyrac who first suggested it, and the boys quickly agreed, shouting their own ideas and rushing to open their pinterest pages. It was the first year all the Amis had lived together and though the pairs and trios who had lived together previously often would plaster their windows with shoddy handmade snowflakes, a real, live Christmas tree was certainly something to get excited about. It was twelve days until Christmas and Enjolras was already fed up with the whole thing. He hated organized religion to begin with, but he especially disliked the consumerism that had been tagged onto the holiday. Joly, however, was the first to protest. “It’s my allergies, I just couldn’t be around a live tree,” he insisted, wiping an already dripping nose. Bahorel only objected because he didn’t see the purpose of tree farms, “I could chop one down myself,” he swore. “With his bare hands!” Jehan added, happily. Marius became flushed and a little sad, but happy sad and admitted he’d never celebrated Christmas, “We went to mass, but there wasn’t any gifts, or… whatever else you do.” Feuilly patted his back and said the same, but more because of the money than the old grumpy grandfather thing.

“We’ll think about it,” Combeferre finally announced. “Enjolras and I hold the flat in our names, and we paid the security deposit, as well. We’ll talk about it,” he gave Enjolras a heavy stare, “and get back to you.”

It can only be inferred that Combeferre received the same number of texts as Enjolras did the next day. It seemed every Amis member found it their duty to insist to Enjolras that the pine tree was needed, and Grantaire even sent the horrifying suggestion that he could paint a very realistic Christmas tree on the living room wall. Enjolras simply sent ‘NO’ to the latter, and figured he’d deal with the other, less disconcerting, messages later that day.

The streets of Paris were dark when Enjolras arrived home. In the dark and dank hallway of Les Amis’ flat he held his key in hand, listening earnestly at the ruckus from beyond the door.

“Spit that out! Right now!”

“I’m an artist, Jollly, I get paint in my mouth all the time, don’t you worry your little self.”

 “Not that! The pear! You have no idea where that’s been! You didn’t wash it and where did you even get this many pears!? You could get a plethora of diseases and…”

Enjolras turned the key, bursting into the bright flat. He swatted hanging paper snowflakes out of his face and focused to see a handful of the boys sitting on the living room’s tan carpet surrounded by dozens of pears and sheets of paper, anger grew in his chest when he saw the paint tubes scattered over the couches. “What the hell?” His voice barely left his lips, but Grantaire’s ears, tuned to the voice of his Apollo, had noticed his appearance before the boy had climbed the stairs to their flat.

“It’s Christmas, oh, heartless leader,” He said, jumping to his feet, readying a tour of the festivities. “Since Feuilly and Marius have never celebrated the holiday we-“

“We?”

“Courf, Jehan, erm… Joly and Bossuet just got here, Combeferre just shook his head and said he didn’t know, what he didn’t know I couldn’t decipher, but I’m sure he’ll come out of his room now that you’re here,” Grantaire explained mindlessly.

 “So, the mess?”

“Mess?! It’s Christmas!” Grantaire took Enjolras by the arm and pulled him further into the room and, well, the mess; Enjolras found himself standing in front of a four foot tall post emitting spikes in all directions, a possible explanation for Grantaire’s slightly bloodied shirt and cheek plastered in pink band aids. Covering just about a third of the spikes were painted and bedazzled fruits, pears beyond recognition.

Marius jumped to his feet and held up a pear he was painting to look like a blonde haired girl, “It’s a pear tree, like the song? Feuilly thought of it. I guess now, I mean, after how Combeferre responded, it’s not really what people usually do, but we’re painting the pears to look like things we love-“

“Or just pretty!” Jehan interjected, showing his pear, hyper realistically painted like a rose.

“And these?” Enjolras toed a pile of print outs, “Who is that?”

“Those are David Cassidy there, and these are Shirley Jones,” Grantaire smiled, fanning out another stack. “They’re Partridges!” He shouted, laughing a little too hard.  “Like the show?” Enjolras squinted his eyes at the other boy and wondered what the hell he was smoking now. Grantaire’s odd television addictions always seemed to slip E’s mind. “It was an American sitcom in the 1970s! Great show! I watched all three seasons the first week I had Mono a few months ago, and I just suggested it to the boys, and it was decided no other Partridges would be better on our tree!” Grantaire winked and fell onto the couch to begin cutting out the faces of the two aged actors.

“It’s… beautiful,” Enjolras sighed, too worn out from his internship to deal with the display, but he was also too exhausted to deal with the sparkle in R’s eyes after Enj had complimented the boy’s work. He shuffled around a bit and winced one too many times at the paint covered carpet before standing in the center of the painting Amis. While more paint and sparkles were applied to innocent pears, Enjolras snuck away to Combeferre, hoping to find the last sane boy occupying the flat. After a sharp knock on his locked bedroom door, Combeferre answered, “Enj!” Combeferre whispered through the crack in his door, “Look! I was thinking I could put it up in the kitchen?” The bespectacled boy opened the door wide and held his arms up and as wide as they would go, a long series of snowflakes hung from his hands. Enjolras sighed, smiled at his friend, and said it would be a very nice addition.

Upon reentering the living room Enjolras clasped his hands loudly and made an announcement. “Alright, text the other amis, get your coats, we’re going to buy a Christmas tree,” The boys cheered and pulled out their phones, soon to be covered in paint by their grubby fingers. Enjolras hoped, for his sanity, this Christmas spirit would end soon.

**Two Turtle Doves**

“According to Greek legend the first partridge appeared when Daedalus threw his nephew…” Jehan sighed and turned to look out the window knowing no one was listening. His knowledge of Greek mythology was plentiful, but it didn’t seem the boys really cared about partridges since the taxi was minutes from arriving at a packed tree farm. This didn’t mean they didn’t care about all birds.

“What the hell is a turtle dove?” Lesgle shouted, approaching the now parked taxi and smacking his forehead on an abruptly opened taxi door. “Ow,” he whimpered, but the pain was quick and the question wasn’t answered.

Grantaire staggered from a nearby taxi. “To tell you the truth, I always just imagine a grumpy-ass turtle with puny wings, hobbling around its whole life and finally finding its mate and that’s why it’s two turtle doves because they’re the only mutants that ended up that way. Or just Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that can fly… that would be awesome.”

“That’s very insightful, Grantaire,” Combeferre replied, climbing out of the taxi behind him, handing a few bills to the driver. “Turtle Dove, Streptopelia turtur, also known as the European Turtle Dove. It’s related to the common pigeon and dove. No shell, no mutations, let’s go pick a tree.”

“Right, let’s go,” Enjolras arrived and pulled on a pair of gloves, herding the group toward an obscene number of trees, lights and screaming children. “Quickly.”

Combeferre lagged in the back with Enjolras, patting his friend meaningfully on the back. “Do you ever feel like-“

“Yes.” Enjolras mumbled back.

“You didn’t even let me finish.” Combeferre responded with a small smile, he pushed his dry and cracking hands into warm coat pockets and continued. “Do you ever feel like we’re herding the kids from playdate to playdate, and it’s somehow our obligation to socialize them and give them a full Christmas experience? Neither of us really care about this whole thing, but it’s worth it to see them excited.”

“Sadly, yes.” Enjolras sighed and opened his wallet; the two stood facing one another by a 12 foot tall spruce, the other Amis had dispersed quickly.

“I brought cash, put that away,” Combeferre laughed. Enjolras gave Combeferre a look over his wallet, empty of cash, holding purely debit and credit cards, Enj’s eyes rose and he shook his head. Combeferre chucked, “I may have known the boys would convince you, and I may have checked to see if this place accepted cards. They don’t.”

“Apollo!” Enjolras’ head burst with the ringing voice in his ears. Grantaire swung his arms around Enjolras displaying a… a thing. It couldn’t even be described as a Christmas tree, a gymnosperm or even a tree at all. It was a twig with one or two needles hanging dangerously from the top most twiggy twig. Grantaire’s breath was hot on Enjolras’ neck, somehow making its way through his wool scarf, “Whadya think?” He asked, breathless, giving the impression he’d sprinted from the dark corner of hell this tree came from just to display it to his unsuspecting friend. The artist rested his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder, admiring the tree he’d produced. A little of Grantaire’s scruff rubbed at Enjolras’ bare cheek and the golden boy leaned away, successfully weaving under his friend’s arm.

Grantaire held the foot tall, potted twig in his arms, cradling it to his green jacket, a little too thin for the snow. Enjolras twisted his mouth and scanned the crowd. In the distance he could see the rest of his friends carrying a big, bulky and insanely plush tree with the girth of a house toward them. “What’s figgy pudding!?” Enjolras could hear Feuilly shout from somewhere under the tree. Enjolras could see Combeferre from the corner of his eye, and met his stare allowing a small smile to show on his chilled face. He heard a small “okay” escape from Grantaire’s mouth to his right, and a fleeting thought to ask Combeferre for a couple bills to buy the sad tree crossed Enjolras’ mind but the Amis were upon him in seconds.

“We named him Turtle Dove!” A voice boomed from toward the back of the tree. “Or Lamarque. Or Patria?”

“It’s not a him,” Feuilly responded. “This tree shows both female and male cones.” He nodded, thinking back to his winter logging in Poland.

“Also,” Jehan piped up, “I think we should allow Turtle Dove to be whoever it wants to be. We will love it either way.” The boy patted a branch. They all smiled, sticky with sap, and Combeferre nodded, walking over the heavy set man he only guessed was the lot owner, holding up a fist of bills.

**Three French Hens**

What Combeferre didn’t think through was how Turtle-Dove-Lamarque-or-Patria would be delivered from the tree farm to the flat. Eight taxi drivers refused to help the shivering boys and fifteen minutes later they decided walking fifteen blocks to their apartment was their only choice, and the only way Turtle-Dove-Lamarque-or-Patria could really be theirs.

By the time the group reached the Musain, a halfway point to their flat, five gloves were lost and none of the boys were spared from a thick coating of sap and needles. A shift in weight was felt when Grantaire, who was sharing the bulk of the trunk with Bahorel, dropped his share and walked into the bustling bar. The rest of the group followed, Bossuet and Feuilly being the last to enter after buying a bike lock off a passing stranger, for a handful of coins and warm winter hat, then locking the shedding tree to a parking meter.

The group huddled around five tables pushed together, beer flowed freely and laughter was loud. Three hours later, in the early hours of the next morning, the tree was forgotten. Joly and Lesgle began to feel drowsy, letting their heads fall onto one another’s shoulders before perking up again at the end of each joke to laugh at a punch line. Marius fell asleep into his beer and backtracked one block to sleep at Cosette’s flat. After half a night Feuilly still didn’t understand why anyone would want to eat fruit cake, Bahorel didn’t understand why someone wouldn’t, and Combeferre sighed each time Courfeyrac brought another pitcher of beer to the table, unsticking his sappy hands from the table to stand and pay for the beverages.

Enjolras had spent most of the night watching the group and Grantaire had spent the entire night watching Enjolras. The cynic played with his beer bottle, enjoying the sensation and visual of his sticky skin peeling from the cold glass bottle; bottles, beer bottles, a case, actually. Enjolras held the same beer in his hands the whole night, the amber liquid growing warm in his grasp until Grantaire finished his sixth bottle, realized he had run out, and reached over to take the leader’s drink. Three straight hours of holding the bottle, however, had created quite the adhesive between Enjolras’ hands and the bottle.  Beer erupted all over the two boys and their neighboring friends.

“Charming,” the two boys heard a stranger approach and clasp their outer shoulders tightly.

“Clasqueous,” Enjolras said gruffly. In the distance, near the entrance, the blonde boy could see Bamatabois smiling next to Montparnasse, the latter inappropriately overdressed in a three piece suit, like always. “What do you want?” He said, trying to get a look at the man behind him.

Bahorel had stood, setting his drink down slowly, and the other boys were on edge. “Where are the chicks?” Clasqueous asked.

“Don’t let Musichetta hear you,” Joly piped up, he blushed from the alcohol and his sudden bravery. “She’d kill you for calling her a chick,” he finished timidly.

“No chick? Fine. Broad. Bird. Bitch. Hen. Where are the three French hens, huh?” The man chuckled and waved his friends over. “I like the little dark one, what’s her name? Eponine? I haven’t seen her in a while, not after we-“

Grantaire jerked back and moved to swing at their greasy foe until a swift punch to his own stomach was delivered. “R!” Enjolras shouted, catching him mid-fall. He stumbled under Grantaire’s weight and lowered the boy to the ground where Joly met him to feel for broken ribs. “The girls aren’t here. There’s nothing here for you, get out.”

Turtle-Dove-Lamarque-or-Patria spent a few more hours outside the Musain, wet snow growing heavy on its branches through the night, because Enjolras’ face was the next to feel the impact of the criminal’s fist.

**Four Calling Birds**

A bowl of stale cereal, milk pouring slowly, Christmas songs playing in someone’s room down the hall, pine needles stuck in socks, the smell of rotting pears through the flat, Enjolras was miserable. His eyes were sore and a deep purple bruise marked his marble face.

“I imagine Clasqueous’ hand didn’t fare well, Apollo.” Grantaire mumbled over a spoon full of soggy cereal. He’d been watching the blonde, curly haired boy as he went about his strange morning habits; from the coffee cooling to near room temperature before being reheated until scalding, to his changing of outfits five times until settling on a red jumper and dark jeans. The leader shouted about the flat asking if anyone had seen his favorite wool socks while Grantaire just smirked and tucked his warm feet under himself and contemplating on a scale of one to ten how hot he found Enjolras a little bruised.

(It was an eleven.)

The last comment, however, forced Enjolras to look at his cynic for the first time that day, and in seconds Grantaire was off his kitchen stool lying on his back pinned to the ground. “Get. Your. Own. God. Damn. Socks!” Enjolras shouted, pulling Grantaire’s writhing feet out of his 20 euro socks.

“Interesting,” Bahorel said, entering the flat and placing two shopping bags onto the nearby couch.

“Well! It’s about time, but I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to look,” Courfeyrac shouted over his shoulder, carrying two full bags to the freezer.

It was three days after the first discussion of a tree and a day after the incident at the bar, and so though Grantaire couldn’t say he disliked Enjolras’ shifting weight pushing onto his hips, the movement and pressure was beginning to put a strain on his bruised ribs. As if an answer to his wish, Eponine was above the pair within an instant.

“You’re breaking him!” Enjolras was pushed from his position, one sock had been removed and the second was only within the grips of Grantaire’s fairly hairy toes. The final motion of falling off his friend’s thighs allowed the leader to safely retrieve the socks and stumble away in a daze. “R! My poor Grantaire! I heard you were beat by rowdy criminals trying to protect me!” She took Grantaire’s soft cheeks in her hands and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I also heard you were giving Enjolras a hand job while it happened. So good job there,” the girl stood and winked. From the other side of the kitchen she could hear Courfeyrac snort and cough at the comment, orange juice spilled onto the tiled floor and the boys began laughing.

“That’s a lie!” Enjolras burst through the laughing boys from where he’d been checking his socks for holes in the hall. “Who did you hear that from!?” He approached the tiny woman and stared at her furiously, avoiding looking at Grantaire who was splayed out on the ground behind her with a confused but somehow incredibly sexy look on his face.

“A little bird told me,” she replied, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look at his bruised face. “Well, four little birds,” she continued, glancing at a few of the laughing boys. “I heard you got that defending him,” she poked his bruise and Enjolras recoiled with pain. “I got a lot of calls that night, a lot of calling birds. You two can make quite the scene, it seems!”

Combeferre cleared his throat at the door to the flat and Eponine smiled and waved. “Coming! Combeferre is driving me to an interview, but I’ll see you boys later! I hope we can do something fun for the holidays. Call me about that, Courf! Nice seeing you all, and congrats you two!” Eponine walked to Combeferre, who was bundled in several layers of grey and blue, waved goodbye and left her mess behind the closed door.

**Five Golden Rings**

With only eight days until Christmas, the normal chaos of Les Amis had grown to an uncontrollable high. Everyday new decorations were added to each and every single surface that was within reach, gifts were wrapped to be placed in the tree-less living room –both previously mentioned trees had disappeared in the night, the pear and partridge tree by a mysterious tree-napper better known as Enjolras, and the darling Turtle-Dove-Lamarque-or-Patria by the hands of a stranger who wasn’t deterred by a bike lock.

The first ring was Cossette. A buzz traveled through the bustling flat and Marius ran to unlock the door downstairs. The girl was ushered through the door with pink cheeks and a stack of pies, unnecessary bribes for the question she was about to ask.  “Papa’s out of town for the holiday. A bishop he was really close to- oh thank you,” Jehan handed her a cup of lemongrass tea, “er, right, he died and Papa had to go, so, I was wondering if I could celebrate the holiday here?”

“Of course!” Marius shouted, taking her hand and kissing it, enthusiastically. “I mean,” he glanced at the other boys with his puppy dog eyes.

“Of course!” They chimed in.

The second ring was Lesgle who had lost his key for the thirty second time that year. “The year’s almost over! We can start recounting soon!” He laughed while writing a post-it reminder for Enjolras to make another copy.

Combeferre, the Guide walked into the kitchen, after hearing the buzzer and the announcement “it’s Lesgle, again,” followed by running feet, and opened a drawer full of copper keys. “Here you go,” he smiled softly.

“Thanks Combe!” Lesgle put the key in his back pocket when a clink was heard. “There it is!” He laughed, producing two identical keys from the tattered jean. “Magic!”

The third ring came during lunch when they were all at the Musain. The police man pushed a letter into the door jamb addressed to Marius about odd circumstances he’d reported years earlier about the Thenardier family. The boy stuffed the letter into his pocked upon arrival and the other Amis tried to pretend they didn’t see anything.

Eponine arrived in a flurry hours later. She owned a key, and so there was no ring. “It’s not like I care, or love them, or care, I mean, they deserve it, and I’ve been taking care of Gavroche for ages, and they’re horrible people, and even worse parents, and whatever, but still, I mean, how did they even know? That Javert guy’s been trying to get them arrested for ages, and supposedly there was a tip or something, but the tip was for something that happened like eons ago, and, Marius… what’s wrong?”

The fourth ring was a bit dull. The battery in the intercom was dying and Feuilly had to hit the button five times before anyone actually noticed he was there, “I’VE COME BEARING GIFTS YOU MOTHERF-“ the intercom died, but the boys received the general message.

“Turtle Dove!”

“Lamarque!”

“Patria!”

Five boys had run down to help Feuilly deliver his gifts, or singular gift as it turned out to be, and thought it wasn’t technically Turtle-Dove-Lamarque-or-Patria, he, or she, brought a lot of happiness. In an excited flurry the tree was up and decorated in just minutes. Paper streamers hung over the lush branches, previously unused glow sticks left over from a party four months ago lit the tree until the boys could return with twinkle lights from the nearest charity shop, and even a painted pear or two made it on.

“Literary,” Grantaire murmured into Enjolras’ ear. The blonde startled and rubbed his worn face to calm himself. “On edge? Expecting another punch? Nice trees don’t always mean black eyes,” Grantaire spoke lightly and neither he nor Enjolras were really listening to the words. The bruise had begun to subside and Enjolras’ blue eyes shone with the reflections of Christmas lights. Grantaire couldn’t help but stare. Grantaire, just recently part of the decorating process, was covered in sparkles, pieces of tinsel were weaved through his dark curls and a single confetti piece was sparkling on his cheekbone, just below his tired and shining eye.

A fifth ring was administered just then. The battery in the metal box three stories down sparked and struggled, it tried to send its message up the stairs and to the excited boys above, no noise loud enough to be heard over their celebrating was recorded to have arrived. No warning was delivered and an aging man fished a ring of keys from his pocket, then began his climb up the 6 steep flights to the flat. Without warning, Enjolras’ hand was on Grantaire’s face. The soft pad of his thumb rubbed over Grantaire’s tanned cheek and took away the confetti piece; on its way back his knuckles caught on Grantaire’s stubble, tickling both.

Before Grantaire could even blush, or Enjolras even make an excuse for his behavior, there was a knock heard; the cacophony of youthful cheer was lowered to a whisper and all the boys turned their attention to the door.

“Open up! This is your tenant!” The boys all looked toward Enjolras and Enjolras looked to Combeferre. Combeferre shrugged and moved to the door, ready to help.

Enjolras scanned the flat quickly for any illegal or contract-breaking objects and then took long, sure strides toward the door. Opening it just until the security chain grew tense, Enjolras peered into the hall at his stone-faced tenant. “Monsieur,” the man croaked, “you have been legally overpopulating this flat for three months now, this is your ten day notice of eviction. I need you and your nine to fifteen friends to be packed and gone by the stated date.”

**Six Geese A-Laying**

December 19th passed in a heavy daze; Enjolras rolled out of bed before the sun rose and sat thoughtless at his desk for half an hour. He fiddled a pencil in his hand, a mechanical BIC with the green pocket hook partially broken off by Grantaire during a biology lab gone awry- he’d kept it for some reason he couldn’t imagine or couldn’t seem to admit. With a heavy and sad sigh he scratched down a short list in his pocketbook and pushed back his chair with disgruntled enthusiasm to begin another horrible day.

His morning routine passed like molasses: the Keurig rattled as Enjolras’ steaming coffee was delivered, it cooled while he walked around the flat packing for his day for the next 34 minutes. Between outfit two and three he walked around nearly naked, only sporting blue boxer briefs, with a toothbrush handing dangerously from his mouth and one sock in hand. He had a mind to rip the aged band posters from Grantaire’s door after slamming his fist into it, loudly, over and over until his pale knuckles grew red and sore. “Grantaire!” He shouted, leaning his head, golden curls still untidy and plastered to his forehead, into the door, making uncomfortable eye contact with a photographed band member wearing too much eyeliner. “Taire! You useless bastard wake up and answer this-”

“Well, at least you’re being nice this morning,” Enjolras could hear Grantaire’s voice approaching through the door. He took a step back and waited for the boy to open up. He waited, and waited, until finally a zombie-like Grantaire cracked the door a sliver. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” The boy’s eyes grew wide and he scanned Enjolras unambiguously; Grantaire chuckled and opened the door a little wider. He held a sheer white bedsheet at hip height, wrapped and draped around his dark deceiving body. His face was contorted into a smug smile beneath a stubble beard that just barely masked his glazed eyes and periorbital circles. “Yes, oh, fearless leader?”

Enjolras rubbed the sleep from his own eyes, suddenly feeling lethargic just seeing the sleep stuck on Grantaire, rubbing also allowed for a diversion of his own wandering eyes from what had appeared before him. And then he remembered why he even damned himself to seeing Grantaire before his morning coffee. “My socks, give me my socks, I know you have them, I’m running late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire sighed, taking yet another look at Enjolras’ toned thighs. “I mean, I do, but I don’t. I know why you think I have them, but I don’t, really.”

“Don’t give me this shit, Taire, I’m going to be late.”

“You only call me Taire when you’re angry, and I assure you there is no reason to use such a horrid nickname. This time, at least.” Grantaire shifted to his right foot and leaned against the doorframe, giving alarming slack to the sheet. “You do your laundry every Tuesday afternoon, I wasn’t home from Tuesday morning to Wednesday afternoon -I had a fencing tournament- you lock your bedroom door at all times, and so, I had no way to get to your precious socks. Happy?” Grantaire looked a little sad, but a smile graced his tired face and he nodded once to show just how right he was.

Enjolras thought on it, embarrassed that Grantaire was actually more level headed than him for the first time in their friendship, and then embarrassed he hadn’t noted the other boy’s disappearance for an entire 24 hour period. “No, I’m not happy, my socks are still missing, and…” his voice softened, “and, erm, how’d you do? I mean, I’m sorry we didn’t come, did you, did you want us to come?”

“I did well. It was an away tournament, that’s why I was gone Tuesday night…” Both Enjolras and Grantaire faded off into their own thoughts; it wasn’t normal or comfortable to have incorporated any care of Grantaire’s personal life into a conversation and so the previously furious and determined Enjorlas had become an awkward and wordless half-naked man.

Enjolras nodded and began treading down the hardwood hallway, his bare feet slowing a few feet from Grantaire’s door. He turned. The cynic was watching the boy closely. “Have a nice day, R,” Enjolras said, Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras kept walking.

-

The twelve hours between his odd encounter with Grantaire and arriving back at home were just as boring as one might have expected when the words “filing”, “bureaucracy” and “moths” are mentioned, as long as the “moth” bit isn’t mentioned to Combeferre. He went to class, attended his internship, and tried to find a moth related Christmas gift for his best friend but only after climbing the three stories of stairs he remembered the unfortunate announcement occurring only a night earlier and all he wanted was for someone to have worked it all out, he, of course, was too quick to wish.

Every light was off when Enjolras turned his key and walked into the cold apartment.  The first second upon entering Enjolras may have thought no one was home, they could have been at the Musain already or out looking for new apartments, but he wasn’t so lucky.

“BUT WHYYY!? Why did Scar have to kill his brother?! Couldn’t they have talked it out, Thor and Loki style-”

“You know how Thor ends, Bahorel, right?” Joly interjected.

“What about Thor 2? How did that end? I imagine them riding off on white horses on the space rainbow.” Bahorel replied sadly.

“Don’t spoil it! I haven’t seen it yet!” There was a pause as Simba continued to cry over his father’s corpse, and then Jehan saw Enjolras. “Enj! Come on and join us! We’re having a Disney marathon, you can choose the next one.”

“I was gonna choose though,” Marius sat up and produced Sleeping Beauty from under his pillow.

“He thinks it looks like Cossette,” Courfeyrac explained. “She couldn’t make it tonight.” Marius sighed and tucked the movie back into its hiding place.

Enjolras looked upon Joly, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Bahorel, Marius and Jehan laying in their heap of blankets. His jaw clenched and he calculated. They had six days until Christmas and only a few more days until they’d be homeless, and here his friends were, watching Lion King. “You six,” he began. As constantly angry as Enjolras may have seemed, especially to Grantaire, he really wasn’t an angry person. He was passionate, and determined, and loyal to his friends, and so while he may have scolded them a little more than a normal friend may have, he didn’t enjoy it. He felt like a distrusted parent who scolds their children to the point of mutual hatred, and he loved them more than that, but he also loved them enough to not want them all bed-less in the December chill. “You six, laying here, like animals, while we’re being kicked out of our flat, and you’re just crying over cartoon lions.”

“They’re more than just cartoon lions, Enj! The anguish is real!” Bahorel shouted out into the dark room. His face was half illuminated by the glow of their television, but Enjolras could only see the hallway lights eerily reflecting in their eyes. He let out a strained sigh.

“Fine, watch your movie, I’m going to look for apartments. Tell Ferre to call me when he gets in.” The boys had turned their attention back to the movie, he was no longer there and the problem was forgotten to them. “Going to look for apartments for you lazy fools!” He shouted, turning to the hall.

“I’ll help,” Grantaire said, small in the doorway. His coat was unzipped and his fingers peeked through the pink knitted gloves Eponine had made him three Christmases ago, under a six o’clock shadow his cheeks were rosy with cold and his eyes were glowing from the beer he’d drunk while in art class. He smiled. Enjolras lifted the boy’s coat to sit correctly on his shoulder and let his own arm fall to his side.

The leader nodded and allowed the corners of his lips to turn up. “Let’s check the cafés for listings first?”

 

  **Seven Swans A-Swimming**

“I was afraid of swans when I was little,” Enjolras mumbled through his wool knit scarf. He said this so simply that Grantaire almost missed Enj admitting his ability to fear, and especially able to fear something as arbitrary as a romantically white bird. “My father,” he continued curtly, “told me they would rip my arm off if I got too close.” Grantaire smirked and although that warning was fact, he still was enjoying the impromptu story time. “ _Though_ , he heeded the same warning about liberals.”

Grantaire let out a burst of laughter and Enjolras allowed a small smirk to grow on his own face. R shook his head and let out one last chuckle at the realization that Enjolras’ revealing statement may have explained why his friend, the fearless leader in his red pea coat, had moved to his right side earlier on the path, leaving R closer to the narrow river and thus closer to the swans. He was being used as a flimsy shield against Enjolras’ enemies, and though those enemies weren’t the government or corporations as he might have expected, and Enjolras was putting his friend in danger, Grantaire felt quite happy.

They’d been walking, first in a shocked silence after questioning a drag queen circus clown carrying three cats in his shirt about apartment openings, and then in a silent and mutually appreciated coexistence that, though neither of them mentioned aloud, was quite a nice and new experience. The leader in red looked past the cynic’s curls and glared at the bobbing swans in their frigid river. They stared back with empty, sedated black eyes, mocking him; he became embarrassed and looked down to watch his feet tread across the salted pavement and he tried so desperately to ingnore the anxiety that was plaguing him over the loss of their flat.

In their silence the pair had been walking all day, apartment to apartment, buying excessive amounts of coffee, tea and hot chocolate to keep their body temperatures up in the cooling weather. The temperature had been dropping since they’d stumbled into the flat the night before, defeated and frozen to then watch numbing hours of Disney cartoon after Disney cartoon. Once the duo had scoured the cafes for apartment listings well into the night they’d agreed it would be best to continue their search in the morning. Since the night was still young –Grantaire’s words- the artist walked into the nearest bar to then feel Enjolras’ hand around his upper arm. His throat burned and his stomach clenched with thirst for some hard liquor, but the faint sensation of Enjolras’ mittened hand sliding down his arm to clasp his wrist, and nearly his hand, was enough to distract him, though only for a second. “If you really want to help me tomorrow, we’re going to have to leave early.” Grantaire rolled his eyes. His love for this man was hindered only by his love for sleeping in, and for alcohol as well, of course. “Grantaire,” And then the boy realized that Enjolras wasn’t just insisting on an early morning but an early night as well, and he laughed.

“Apollo, if I’m to spend an entire day with you tomorrow I’m going to have to be a little less than sober.”

Grantaire regretted these words now, hours later. Not because his head was splitting or his stomach was flipping from a hangover, no, Enjolras’ stare and his warm hand felt through Grantaire’s thin jacket was enough to enchant the boy minutes more, long enough for Enjolras to have dragged him out of the night district and closer to the apartment. He regretted them because of the wince.  Enjolras had drawn a breath and clenched his jaw, _My God, when he does that_ , Grantaire thought. The leader had thought vicious words, words full of poison and hate that he only half meant and was only half ready to say, but Grantaire had winced, and the tension passed when the boy released himself and walked out of the bar into the dark street.

They were shuffling now, Enjolras bundled up with blonde curls peeking out over his eyes, and Grantaire in a borrowed jacket from Jehan who’d been knitting new fingers for Grantaire’s gloves ( _There’s too might sentiment attached, Jehan! ‘Ponine knitted them and she’d kill me if I threw them out!_ ) and who insisted it was much too cold to go out for himself, and the coat wouldn’t be missed. Jehan had simply snuggled down into his blankets with a cup of tea while Grantaire struggled to button the jacket around his deceivingly thin body. _It might be in the library_ , Bossuet had responded when Grantaire had asked after his coat. Enjolras just rolled his eyes and Jehan had offered to knit him a sweater until he found it.

So now, as much as Enjolras appreciated not having to watch Grantaire turn blue from subzero temperatures as he had the night before, he was struggling to keep his eyes down at his feet and the blue snow salt and not at the small gap of abdomen the poet’s jacket sometimes made when it rode up a little while on the cynic. It had been the first morning in his recent memory that Grantaire was seemly 100% sober, and that may have fueled his admirations, as well. “This is nice,” Grantaire finally said as they neared the end of the Swan Path.

Enjolras simply looked at Grantaire over his scarf and only lifted his shoulders further to resemble something a bystander may describe as a tense and disconcertedly attractive teenage girl, only he wasn’t stomping Ugged feet or sipping on Starbucks, he was staring into the blue eyes of a man -he’d realized the night before- he could barely even call “friend”. “Eh?” He breathed through his tightly wound scarf.

“I mean,” Grantaire turned to watch the water rush by and Enjoras slowly sidestepped to his elbow, still a fairly safe distance from the swans. “I think this is the longest we’ve been within ten feet of one another without fighting.” He glanced at Enjolras to gage the boy’s reaction but he could only see a glint of blue eyes under the curls, hat and cumbersome scarf.

“Without alcohol, at least,” Enjolras replied gruffly.

“Or a wall,” Grantaire said mindlessly.

“A wall?”

Grantaire blushed and realized he should have just agreed with the alcohol statement. He didn’t respond and Enjolras grew annoyed, turning fully to the boy, despite the fact this put the plotting birds out of his sight. “Our beds,” Grantaire nodded, hoping he could leave it there. Enjolras stared. “Your bed is in the left back corner, mine is in the right.” Still this wasn’t enough. “You snore, I can hear it through the wall.”

“I do not!” Enjolras shouted, becoming redder than he had been simply from the chill. The birds startled and he took a step back.

“Anyways, this day was nice.”

“You’re saying that like its past tense,” Enjolras began. It was simply an observation but his voice sounded a little angered. “We still have eight flats to ask after.”

Grantaire shrugged. The tone had turned from calm to sentimental to an average pre-argument between Apollo and his cynic. Grantaire wanted no part of it. From his trouser pocket he retrieved a cheap pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his chapped lips. The dry paper stuck to the soft interior of his mouth, he fished around for a lighter with hands stiff from the cold.

Enjolras rolled his eyes for the nth time that day and grabbed the cigarette hanging loosely from Grantaire’s purple lips. Without thought he threw the unlit stub into the river, grabbing the attention of the swans who narrowed their eyes at him. The fearless leader grew nervous. Grantaire stared at Enjolras in shock before the taller boy grabbed his hand and pulled Grantaire toward the road. “I shouldn’t say this but you’re actually quite good at apartment hunting,” Enjolras said breathless once they’d crossed the busy road.

Grantaire was about to say his talent was due to all the times he’d been evicted, but he chose to relish in the satisfaction of Enjolras’ hand gripping his, taking the warmth as an apology for the heat his cigarette would have provided, and obviously the new feeling brought about from Enjolras telling him he was needed even if it wasn’t directly said. The two continued down the road in silence with hands held tight, onto the next apartment (inhabited by five former nuns, two of which were drug smugglers).

 

**Eight Hounds A-Running**

Javert, though it may not need to be said, hated Christmas. The crime rate increased by tenfold for each day that went by leading up to the holiday, and he was being pulled between real crimes and shopliftings, the suspects of the latter he tended to throw into an overnight cell until he got around to them, which wasn’t very quickly. One man, Javert remembered with spurn on the thought, stayed for 19 nights for stealing a loaf of bread from the corner store. He was let out on bail and never was seen again, though Javert had been struggling the past two decades to find the man entered as petty theif-24601.

This year had been good to him so far, however; the inspector had made a monumental break in the Thenardier case that had been plaguing the citizens of his city for as long as he could remember, and that was pleasing in itself. With five days until Christmas he was allowing himself to take a short break, with one eye on the phone, of course. Whether he’d become old and forgetful or the fact that Les Amis were hosting a rally just streets away had somehow slipped the greasy man’s greying mind, Javert was much too relaxed for what was going on in his city.

The boys awoke early that morning, Grantaire was noticeably less sober and more hung-over than the morning prior, and met in the living room to go over the plans for the afternoon rally. Enjolras was on edge. He paced from the counter to couch until Combeferre handed him a cup of tea and whispered “settle down, it’ll be no different than the others”. Enjolras looked over the heads of his friends and did a quick count. They were all present, a surprising fact, and ready for him to speak, which he was not. The Leader in red was not anxious because of the rally to come, public speaking came as easy to him as walking or essay writing, but as an amateur sociologist he was well aware of the irony of his situation. Here he was, ready to speak to the masses about income inequality and the effects it had on their society, while he, himself was about to lose a place to sleep. _I’m not an emotional person_ , he reminded himself, but he had laid restless the night before with images of his friends playing on repeat in his tired mind.

Jehan, dear Jehan, he imagined being at a men’s shelter, harassed for his long hair and feminine pastimes. Bahorel sleeping on a park bench with bloody teeth and broken knuckles. Feuilly would figure it out, Enjolras assured himself, Feuilly was smart, resourceful and actually well employed, his golden sun would make it. And Grantaire… Enjolras’ heart tensed and he had rolled in bed to press his forehead against the cold plaster wall. Grantaire, Enjolras began again, he would, he would worry about imposing too long on Eponine’s welcome, he would insist to her, pushing the girls warm hands away, that he’d stayed to long, and he’d gather his plastic bag of belongings up over his shoulder. Enjolras would walk one day to class and he’d advert his eyes from a homeless man with rotting clothes and missing teeth holding a bottle to his bruised lips. These people are his cause, and a few of his coins wouldn’t help, The Leader Without His People would think, but he would hear what he thought was a familiar voice. “Apollo,” it would moan, “always the sunlight, always bright,” the dirt covered voice would say. Enjolras would turn and see the eyes beneath the grime and,-

He sat up in bed and blinked back the emotion that had filled his eyes. _I’m not an emotional person_ , Enjolras reminded himself, taking out his computer and continuing his desperate search for apartments.    

“At the end of the day _-“_ pause, listen, calculate _“-_ you’ve got nothing,” Enjolras’ voice boomed through the people who had gathered in the city’s center. His voice repeated over and over through hundreds of voice boxes. ‘The human microphone’ they called it, a trick picked up from Occupy Wall Street and copied around the world, though it had been left forgotten for just over two years. Enjolras heard the furthest voices finish and he piped up for the last part of his broken speech. “Because they’ve taken it all.” His voice carried, again through the crowd, but this time silent cheers on the fingers of his fellow fighters shone in the daylight. Once his words reached the back, a wave of cheering washed itself up and over the rock he stood on. Combeferre paused his clapping for a moment to hold one hand up and help Enjolras down, Enj took his friend’s offer and hopped down while the cheering continued.

“Best yet!” “Nice one!” “Powerful!” Enjolras heard as he made his way through the crowd to where the rest of the group stood. Cheering continued and one of the feminist speakers got ready to mount the Speech Rock when there was a shift.

A split second of silence.

A split second of innocent confusion.

A scream where the cheering once hung in the chilled winter air.

Enjolras turned. He was tall but not tall enough to see over the hats and heads matted with snow around him. Fear burst through his chest, backing up, slowly, voices filled his head. _What have I done?!_ From where Musichetta was standing, upon the Speech Rock with her script in hand, she was able to see the wall of human flesh, fear and panic as it was pulled like a bow and released, bursting through the city square. Across the center, through the writhing crowd, stood Javert in all his glory, surrounded victoriously by numerous riot control officers clothed in black bullet proof vests and armed with plastic shields, rubber bullet guns and pepper spray. Nothing was too far for the Inspector.

The string of the bow was released. The crowd sprang forward. Dogs on a hunt they bound and lept.

“’Ferre!” Courfeyrac screamed as his friend was torn from the group. Enjolras tried to stand his ground in the chaos where he was completely and utterly confused but the crowd pushed him relentlessly. He finally was pushed off his feet and tensed as he was carried for several feet until Courfeyrac reached through a wall of people to pull him back to Earth. He grabbed Courf’s forearm and held on for his life, “What’s going on!?” Courfeyrac shouted, his voice was rattled and he had begun to breathe heavily among the mass of people. Enjolras didn’t reply, though. The leader was looking for his followers, eagerly, and panicked. His hat fell from his curls and onto the muddy ground- one, two, three, four- someone elbowed him and he lost sight of Bahorel- one, two, three- Combeferre appeared at his shoulder and knotted his brows- six, seven, eight- he counted as many more times as he could, always ending at eight. Who was missing?

The mass of people, a human wall, hit an opening in the winding city streets and scattered like the channel into a delta. Enjolras grabbed at his friends with shaking hands. The small group latched themselves to the walls of a nearby alley, an outlet from the vicious river flow; Cosette, Musichetta and Eponine joined quickly. Enjolras noted them down in his numbers, as well.

They all began talking at once. The yelling mass of people passed by feet away. Enjolras’ ears were filled and flooded with screams of people being trampled and the terror filled voices of his brothers and sisters.Enj,what’sgoingon?Isawit,Isawthem,theyjustattackedfornoreason.IthinkIbrokemywrist.Ican’tbreath.Enj?Haveyouseenhim,Bahorel?No,’Ponine?No.I’mscared.Me,too.Enj?Whatdowedo?

Enjolras pulled at his hair with numb finger and fell against the wall, gasping for air.

_Grantaire. He’s missing._

**Nine Ladies Dancing**

“We had to move the kid to his own cell around two this morning,” the guard said. “He wouldn’t stop singing show tunes and, erm, Disney songs,” he cleared his throat, putting a beefy hand to his pudgy lips. “It was for his safety, we thought someone might shank the kid. We usually hear pub songs in the overnight lockup. But not this one, he really knows those musical ones.” The pair walked past empty cells in silence, only the keys on the guard’s hip to match the echoing of their footsteps on the concrete. “So, you’re his attorney, he said?” He looked over his meaty shoulder at the young man following him, the man nodded and the guard looked forward indecisively. “You look like a kid yourself, right out of law school, eh?” The young man rolled his eyes, not at the comment but at the guard’s incessant chattering; it was more than bothersome. He made a noise in his throat that the guard took as an affirmative. “I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of Apollo’s Attorney at Law, though.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flared and his jaw clenched. “How much longer?” He questioned, his tone noticeably more irritable than the smooth talking he’d used to first get the guard to guide him back here.

“We’re right here,” the guard slowed to a stop in front of a thick metal door, through a small glass window there was another block of cells to be seen, and somehow through all this Enjolras could hear the muffled singing of his friend. The guard fumbled with his keys as Enjolras wondered how someone could possibly become drunk while alone in a jail cell for nearly 24 hours; so he asked just that. “Ha! M’boy, it seems quite the opposite. The kid won’t stop yelling at passing guards that he’s ‘too sober for this’, the boy hasn’t had a sip since he was arrested. Five hip flasks taken away, nearly a record, though.”

Enjolras sighed and followed the guard into the next block. “’Cause sirens, sirens are all I hear,” the voice was slightly off tune, but sounded even tinnier after bouncing through metal bars to reach Enjolras’ ears. “Callin out, callin’ out someone’s name!” The boy sighed and mumbled a name himself, something sounding quite similar to Enjolras’. “Sirens, sirens don’t come our way, or we’ll all run, run, run, running” the boy continued to chant the word in a tired, drunken sounding way until Enjolras and the guard had finally approached and stopped in front of his cell. “Running away.” He finished, perking his ears at the sound of the men’s halting footsteps. “You know officers,” the much-too-sober boy called toward the ceiling from where his thin frame lay on a thin cot. “There’s just something about singing that really lifts the mood. I shouldn’t say it, Greyfeild,” he started to sing, slowly, to the guard, not lifting his hung-over head to see that Enjolras was also his audience. “but I’m starting to think I care, I’ve had a drink, you probl’y think my judm’t is im- but I haven’t drunk, I swear, Grey-“ He sat up to dramatically swear his sobriety to the guard when he saw Enjolras, hair combed down on his head, arms crossed over a three piece suit. Grantaire decided this look won over the beat-and-bloodied look he’d rated an 11. _Twelve out of ten_ , he thought, standing.

Instead of acting like a civilized man, however, he stumbled in his pseudo drunkenness to where Enjolras stood on the other side of the metal bars. The leader had to wonder at how uncannily the boy really did look drunk, though after a quick mental debate he assured himself that if Grantaire had the chance to drink he’d take it, and this façade _never_ could have been done at one of the meetings. For attention. Never. “There’s _one_ thing _you_ should know,” Grantaire continued, pointing his finger through the bars at Enjolras’ nose, a soundless “boop” forming on the artist’s lips. “Oh when you ho- AHhhh!”

Fed up with Grantaire’s stupidity Enjolras quickly slipped his hands through the metal bars, grabbed the cynic by his jacket and pulled him abruptly toward him. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to-“ the guard began, but Enjolras delivered a look so full of disdain that the man actually took a step back. He looked back at the young man in his grips, his nose was bent against a cold bar, and his dark curls had been pressed into his eyes. “Listen to me, Grantaire, I have bailed out every one of the men and women who came to my speech and I consider that money well spent, but for Christ’s sake I have half a mind to let you rot in here so if you don’t shut the fuck up and act like a sophisticated human being I will ensure that those gorgeous blue eyes of yours never see the light.” He shoved, with a surprising amount of force, Grantaire back into the cell, retrieving his hands from out of the bars and blushed at his words. Grantaire was sent stumbling over the bed and onto the cement floor, when he looked up his guard and fake lawyer had left.

“I was narrating the rally,” Grantaire said, sat in the passenger seat of Enjolras’ spotless car.

“Yeah,” Enjolras mumbled.

“The sirens, the running,” Grantaire continued, mindlessly.

“Yeah,” Enjolras hit the right turn signal and checked his mirror.

“I didn’t do anything, Apollo. They had no reason to arrest me, just association, I guess.” Grantaire sounded slightly panicked and it didn’t help that he’d slipped in the part about association. Enjolras had already spend the night with a tight chest and a rebelling stomach after every news report concerning someone else in the hospital after the day’s events.

“Yeah, I know, Taire.”

“You didn’t get angry,” Grantaire paused and turned to look at Enjolras, lifting his tired head from the chilled window. “You didn’t say anything when I called you Apollo, Apollo.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replied, mindlessly. He wasn’t used to driving through this part of the city, the jail wasn’t a normal stop for him, but he wasn’t lost, the leader never got lost. He did, however, use the turns and directions as a reason to ignore Grantaire for the time being. He was angry and frustrated about the previous day’s events. He wanted to fight even more than he ever had but at the same time he was scared of his own power and influence, of bad that could come for his search of good. He turned right instead of left, and swore. Grantaire bit his cheek and looked at the release papers in his lap.

“I’ll pay you back,” Grantaire whispered, eyeing the 200 pound price tag on his freedom.

“No you wo-“ Enjolras began but he quickly stopped himself. He was ready to say that the boy would never have the money, nor would he have the motivation to pay his leader back, but he couldn’t hurt another person. _One hundred twenty six people flocked the city hospital in the last 12 hours after police broke up a rally downtown around 3pm this afternoon,_ the woman’s voice ran through Enjolras’ mind and he just wanted to drown it out; an impossible task that was taking its toll. Also, he remembered, Combeferre had pulled him aside just before leaving to deliver a whispered and hushed fatherly reminder to not be too hard on the cynic. _He’s just another follower, Enj_ , he’d said by the door, peering over his glasses at his closest friend with worry and care. “You don’t have to, really, Grantiare.”

“You ‘kay?” Grantaire asked, turning further toward Enjolras.

“Fine.”

“You were angry, and now you’re- you’re just quiet. Have I crossed into a whole new realm of angry? Please let me know, I’ve been preparing my resume for this moment over the past two years.”

“I’m not always angry,” Enjolras murmured into his scarf. He felt uncomfortable, truth be told. Combeferre was the only one he ever allowed to see him in a weak state, a state where he not only was doubting the world around him but his own abilities and goals, a state that he was sure Grantaire only dreamed about so he could rip his arguments to shreds more quickly. He wanted to get home as soon as possible. Unfortunately for him, and soon for everyone, he still hadn’t been able to correct that right he took instead of a left.

“Not always angry, of course, sometimes you’re sleeping.” Grantaire chuckled and imagined the other boy wrapped in a duvet with a scowl on his face, dreaming of inequality and Yorkshire tea –both of which he hated- until he blushed at the thought of Enjolras in bed and looked back out the window.

They had stopped at an intersection, they were on a small side street, a one way, and Grantaire closed his eyes, knowing the conversation, if that’s what the awkward correspondence could be labeled as, was over. The car idled for a while. Cars in the major road whizzed by. Grantaire shifted. And then he opened his eyes, realizing they hadn’t moved. “Enj?” He questioned with sleep in his voice. His eyes cleared and what he saw was pure fear on his leader’s face. Grantaire straightened in his seat to see out the front windshield and around the car.

“I don’t know what to do,” Enjolras spoke in broken words. “I thought they’d move.” Breath intake. “But they didn’t.”

Surrounding the shiny, recent model car, were a large number of what some might call “lovely ladies”, and Grantaire may call “friends” on an especially low night. One particularly hideous woman stood with her breasts barely covered at Enjolras’ side, motioning for the boy to roll his window down. Enjolras simply continued to look forward as the nine women leaned their cold and scantily clad bodies against his polished vehicle, and the woman began hitting her knuckle against the glass.

He turned, finally, to apologize and smooth talk the women to disengage themselves from his car exterior, but the woman, instead, did the talking. “Eh! Boy!” She shouted, pointing a dirty finger at Enjolras’ face. Never had he been so glad for a quarter inch of glass. “Yer thaht lad from the news! Yah! My flatmate’s friend’s sistah died last night! Yer a weird one!” She let out an ack and signaled for the women to give him space to leave.

Grantaire, being Grantaire, had already begun to move the muscles to laugh, to poke at Enjolras’ innocence, to make a joke, to be Grantaire, but the look on Enjolras’ face blocked all nerve receptors from functioning in the artist’s body. It wasn’t a fear provoking look, like he’d given the guard, or one of pure hatred like he’d received himself at meetings, it was one of indescribable sorrow. So the unlikely pair, a very sober Grantaire and a meek Enjolras, made their way to the flat in silence.

“You’re still sleeping?!” Enjolras boomed when he entered the flat half an hour later. He was trying to adopt a mask, he was trying to slip into his previous identity before it went wrong but his heart wasn’t in it and he needed to find Combeferre.

“Strategic napping!” Bahorel shouted from behind the couch’s gaudy shadow. “So we’ll be ready for the next battle!” From over the floral print Enjolras could see Bahorel’s legs did a kung-fu kick in the air before being gently brought back down to the sofa by Jehan’s small hands.

The tears that had plagued Enjolras’ eyes in the car had dried since he’d leapt the stairs to the flat, but his heart wrenching pain and misery had not. “There won’t be one, sleep all you want,” he announced almost inaudibly. The panic of losing the flat had nearly left his mind completely until he remembered their days sleeping on the couch, strategic napping as Bahorel said, were heavily numbered.

“What?!” A few of the boys cried, sitting up from their lounging positions. “Come on, Enj, some rallys just go bad,” Courfeyrac said with a honey voice, standing up suddenly.

Enjolras shifted his weight, he shifted his gaze to a bruised Grantaire in the door way, he clenched his fists and pulled his hair, he search from his standing position for Combeferre, he searched his worn mind for some courage, for some sanity, he shifted and stomped and the room froze and the boys looked at him and he looked at Grantaire who looked at him with a face he’d never before witnessed and Enjolras took a deep, rattled breath and cried: “People _died_. I _killed people_ ,” before storming to his room where he prayed Combeferre was waiting for him.

**Ten Lords A-Leaping**

  **T** The boys, comfortably groggy from a long night of strategic napping, sweets eating, wine drinking and Christmas quizzes, laughed boisterously in unison at a shared thought, need not said aloud, though that didn't keep Marius from blushing at the bagel in front of him and whispering “do you really think-“

“Do we really think, what?” Grantaire smoothly interjected, entering the room and joining the boys around the large counter. He eyed Marius’ bagel and Bahorel’s coffee but his stomach objected, leaving him leaning on the counter top, all his weight on his forearms, and the boys looking around awkwardly.

“We were just saying you and Enjolras had been acting oddly yesterday,” Bossuet finally admitted, breaking the silence mercifully.

“I suggested the foreign dusts and mildews in the jail could have altered both of your immune systems to possibly make you-“ Joly began, scholastically.

“And I suggested you fucked,” Bahorel laughed. Marius blushed again, Grantaire didn’t. The cynical artist had fixed his recent trouble of sobriety well and easily the day and night earlier. He hadn’t even taken a step into the flat the previous day nor pass the arch in the door where he had stood watching Enjolras break. He’d watched. He’d scanned the other boys. He’d turned, found a bar open at 11am, and he drank splendidly for hours into the night. He wasn’t even around to get into Enjolras’ pants, not that Enjolras would want him to, Grantaire reminded himself.

“Us? Is this heaven?” Grantaire laughed, finally stealing the herbal tea Jehan had been cradling.

“No!” Jehan shouted, and for a moment the entirety of the group thought the young man was protesting his tea being taken, they thought he was actually being confrontational, but alas, he was not. “No, but it  _is_  Christmas Eve Eve, and our first  _real_  day of Christmas break, so…”

His voice faded as he slipped into his bedroom up the hallway; he returned seconds later with a large box which he gingerly set on corner of the countertop. From the box he began to produce tea cups with knitted cozies wrapped around them, “I went to the charity shop and bought you each one I thought was fitting,” he smiled softly and handed one with vintage looking moth drawings and a soft grey cozy on it to Combeferre. “And then I knitted a cozy, because I thought that it would be nice and, er, cozy!”

Grantaire reached out and took his, turning it in his hands. A mug. It wasn’t a dainty cup, although as a person he saw himself as frail and breakable as such, he was sure that’s not what Jehan was going for. He lifted the bluish green knit from the mug to see block letters saying OF COURSE THIS IS COFFEE across the white ceramic. The boy smiled and laughed a little, thinking back to the last Christmas, which he spent with Eponine and Gavroche in which Gavroche innocently stole R’s cup of coffee, thinking he’d be rebellious drinking the caffeine, and instead getting a three parts vodka, one part instant coffee mix in his innocent mouth. “Thank’s, Jean Pro.”

“I’ll take Enjolras’ to him!” Courfeyrac announced, taking the red knit in his hands and admiring the ivory cup and its golden rim. He scurried down the hallway to Enjolras’ door. Combeferre looked up, wearily.

“Enj,” Courfeyrac called softly, moving the tea cup to his left hand so he could knock more efficiently. “Enjolras?” There was no reply. Courfeyrac tried the door but it was locked, as usual. The boy waited a while at his door, knocking silly tunes and patterns onto the wood. Finally he sighed and knew what must be done. “Enjolras, listen,” he began softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m sure ‘Ferre said that to you a million times last night, but it’s true.” He imagined his two best friends entangled on Enjolras’ bed, Combeferre sitting, holding Enjolras’ head in his lap, softly petting his curls, and Enjolras crying silently with a tear stained face, curled into a fetal position at the edge of his bed. So was similar to Combeferre’s tired description when we went and woke Courf hours earlier, asking if he wanted any tea because  _'my god I need some'_. “You’re a great person, Enj, I- I don’t know what to tell you, but what happened wasn’t your fault and it’s only more of a reason to fight for the rights now, to fight against a corrupt government and society, right? Please, open the door. Its Christmas time and I’ve barely gotten to see you, my best mate, for Christmas! Please, Enj.” He sighed and leaned his head against the door frame.

“Courf,” Combeferre came up behind the boy and rested a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not in there.”

Courfeyrac stared at his friend with a moment of disbelief on his mind and then with a blank face, processing everything that had happened in the past days. “’Ferre?” He whispered, looking worriedly at his closest companion. Combeferre looked back and shifted, he shook his head and took Courf into a big hug. “Are all we going to be separated now? With no flat, and, and, no cause?” He sounded like a whimpering child who was worried over his stuffed animal in the wash, but Combeferre felt no differently inside than the sniveling boy. He had no answer, he had no idea, and so he just stood rubbing Courfeyrac’s back in the silent hallway.

-

As it was Christmas Eve Eve the group decided to fill any remaining gaps of Christmaslessness with the dedication and skill only Les Amis could muster. Courfeyrac, like in most situations, had begun this whole ordeal by hanging a mistletoe in every doorway including under bedroom doors, which Marius found too suggestive, but didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to seem rude. Jehan followed suite excitedly by taking Bahorel and Feuilly hostage to decorate Christmas cookies. The poet had covered the table with six dozen freshly baked cutouts, a bowl with each color of icing and five sprinkle dispensers. When Feuilly began insisting he had to go to work Bossuet’s attention was caught; upon walking into the scene he burst out in uncontrollable fits of laughter, the look on Bahorel and Feuilly’s face, he said, looked like that of POW’s, and yes, he would take Feuilly’s position at the table.  Once Bossuet began decorating –need it be said that they looked absolutely awful, and three of every five fell to the ground and broke?- Bahorel felt much better about being there since the attention once put to scolding his “gruesome ginger bread men” -more were purposefully lacking a leg or head than Jehan could handle- had been transferred to making sure Bossuet didn’t spill the snowflake shaped sprinkles all over the kitchen floor.

After being kissed ten times by Courfeyrac –“We just keep bumping into each other! Under doors! ‘Ferre, what are you doing? Don’t you dare throw that away! ‘Ferre! No! Leave at least one hanging!”- Combeferre asked Joly if he’d help make mulled wine. Grantaire soon followed and, in fact, was the only reason the mulled wine was fairly drinkable, yet he insisted he wasn’t there for the alcohol. “Courfeyrac’s mouth tastes like lollipops, I couldn’t take him kissing me one more time, I felt like a pedophile,” he told the boys, and they agreed maybe The Center  _was_  sexually frustrated. Combeferre turned to Jehan, hoping he’d heard their conversation, and the two wine-mulling boys turned to Combeferre, though ‘Ferre couldn’t think of why that might be.

The girls arrived around two and were thrown eagerly into the chaos. Musichetta stood in the kitchen sipping on the freshly mulled wine, flirting with Joly and the other two boys and further adding to the knowledge of drink preparation that Grantaire had already supplied. Eponine, only after catching Marius and Cosette passionately kissing in the bathroom doorway, plopped down next to Bahorel and started icing the cookies before ripping the head off a blushing brown haired one and throwing it across the flat to Grantaire, who somehow caught it in his wine filled mouth. The two grinned at each other and Eponine joined her friends near the stove.

“Where’s Curly?” She asked, sipping from a steaming glass. A wince came from Combeferre, an uncomfortable laugh came from Joly, and Eponine shivered at the gloom that so quickly cast itself over Grantaire’s face. Musichetta set her glass down on the countertop and took hold of Joly’s hand.

“What is it?” She questioned, pulling him toward her. Joly just looked at the other boys with a similar question in his eyes; the girls grew impatient. “Fine, if you don’t know, Combeferre, what happened? Why does Grantaire look like he wants to drink half the city away? And are the two events related?” She said it with a joking tone but the once chattering and laughing group’s ambiance had turned to a darker shade.

Grantaire just shrugged sadly and Combeferre sighed. “Enjolras didn’t react very well to the result of Saturday’s rally. He left this morning and hasn’t come back,” Combeferre stated, so straightforward Musichetta felt she was being told a cappuccino order from a customer. Two espresso shots, extra milk, and some caramel on top. Our friend protested, people died, he ran away. From Chetta’s reaction Combeferre began to see how blasé he’d been during the past eight hours. “I don’t know where he is,” he looked around at the group with large eyes. He'd been worried about the cause and how Enjolras' announcement may shift the group's equilibrium for a while, it's all the boys could talk about the night before. He'd worried that his friend was taking it too hard, that the blame was weighting too heavily on his youthful heart. He'd worried, but he'd let himself go, and the guilt hit him like a punch in the gut.

Grantaire gave him a quizzical look. “I thought you knew where he was,” the young man began calmly, but he readily grew anxious and angered. “How can you not know where he is? I’m kept awake by you whispering nothings to him all night and then you don’t even ask him where he’s going when he storms out at seven in the morning?!” He was now standing inches from Combeferre who was bending slightly backwards over the counter’s edge as to keep some personal space. “You didn’t see him in the car! You didn’t see how he reacted when that woman told him! Who knows where he could be!? He gives up on his life’s work and you let him run off on his own?! He could be dead! He could be attempting an assassination! He, he,” Eponine was at the boy’s elbow now, pulling fervently at his arm.

“R, it’s not Combeferre’s fault, its okay, it’ll be okay,” she whispered softly, pulling him away from the clearly upset Combeferre and into the boy’s own room. “It’ll be okay.”

-

He wasn’t dead, though. The slamming door four hours after Grantaire’s out lash was very real and alive with energy. The wild curls blocking a dancing Hugh Grant in 10 Downing Street were very real, and very alive with bounce and volume. The television suddenly turning black and “Jump (For My Love)” being replaced by the monotone voice of a sit in news announcer who pulled the short stick and had to substitute for the nightly news on the night before Christmas Eve, was very alive, and a little shocking to the former viewers of “Love Actually”. Marius, who had not seen the film before –“You’re not even a true Brit!” “Feuilly was born in  _Poland_  and he’s seen it!” “At least five times, I think.” “See that?! I promise I won’t let the government know, but seriously Marius, I’ve never met a British adult who’s never seen it at least once…”-  was fairly happy with the change of tune, but the other boys shouted objections and ran to flick the lights on to protest more efficiently. A sigh of relief to see Enjolras was well and alive was, however, exhaled by quite a few ABC members.

The leader offered no explanation for his hours missing nor his sudden and odd behavior. Combeferre moved from where he’d been sitting, his arm draped around the couch where Eponine happened to be on his left, to where Enjolras stood among the couches and blankets with his left arm wrapped around his middle and the other arm, right elbow to left wrist, reaching up to allow the boy to bite at his finger nails. “Glad to see you’re well,” Combeferre said standing at the leader’s side. Enjolras offered no reply and simply stood, watching the news anchor and biting –snap, snap, snap- at his nails. “Bad habit, I thought you’d dropped it,” Combeferre said in his most fatherly voice used to date.

Enjolras dropped his arms and began brushing his other hand through tangled locks. Dark circles lined his eyes, his clothes hung slightly damp around his thin frame, and Combeferre worried. The other boys chatted with one another, unbothered just enough to not ask, for now, when the movie would be back on, but Grantaire scrutinized the two as Combeferre talked and Enjolras stared. The pale news lady streamed words along, a cancer patient who was given a cat for Christmas, a local food bank that was overflowing with volunteers, the weather, and then it came on, what Enjolras had been waiting for.

“You may have heard our coverage earlier this week on the justice rally gone awry, leaving dozens still in the hospitals and police on edge around the city, but in the spirit of Christmas we’re more than happy to say that this story doesn’t end here, and it may just be for the good,” the regular newswoman would have delivered it chirpily, excited for a “making a difference” segment to deliver, but despite the dull delivery of these words, the Amis had grown quiet.  Some looked toward Enjolras for an explanation, but most of the students stared and listened intently to the report being given. A middle-aged man appeared on screen sporting a green winter jacket and a stern look. “Behind me you can see the square where several hundred protesters, young and old, gathered just days ago to rally and hear speeches delivered. What seemed like an innocent enough afternoon turned spoilt when the authorities arrived. It’s still unclear what led to the outbreak and Saturday’s events are currently under investigation.”

It was no new news and the boys looked to one another, unsure of what was going on and why Enjolras insisted on watching the same news report for the nth time in the last three days. Enjolras simply stood, uneasy and dissatisfied, but there was something in his eyes that kept the boys listening. He ground his teeth together, Combeferre gave him a look, and the leader rolled his eyes.

“After hearing of these events, however, a story worthy of The Christmas Carol has played out. Some might say it’s the scrooge on Christmas morning, others may say it’s out with the old in with the new, but the young man many label as the leader of all this sees it as something quite different.” The young woman nodded at the camera and the scene changed to a street view.

“I’m ecstatic. My friends say I always have ‘the words’, and I admit I usually do, it’s my life’s labor to spread the word about corruption and inequality to the masses and whether it’s through speeches or articles I usually do deliver ‘the words’, but I think they’ll be surprised to see today that I don’t have these words, at least not to respond to what’s happened. I never could have expected a juxtaposition so thrilling to ever occur, and now that it has, I think that we could really do something great with it.”

The boys stared at the television. Their leader was on the screen, and then he was gone. He wore a smile and a diplomatic voice, adn then it had snapped back to Monotone Mary. Bahorel’s mouth fell open mid-chew with shock. Courfeyrac’s lips mouthed  _what_  and the like and Joly began to giggle. Enjolras still stood, marble face and stone expression, staring at the television, the best hadn’t occurred, it seemed.

“That was Enjolras, the speaker that authorities say was the reason so many individuals gathered on Saturday, in response to the news he was delivered just minutes before-“ the boys drowned out the news anchor and finally turned to stare at their glowing leader. He lifted his chin to encourage the boys to listen, and so they tried, but they were much more eager to listen to Enjolras, who finally agreed and shut the television off.

They settled to listen to a story simply beyond belief, like children in bed on Christmas eve, ready to hear how Santa will come once they sleep. Ten men, so it began, decedents of Lords and Ladies who once ruled over the countryside to the north happened to be meeting for a Christmas party at the country club where Enjolras had gained his political footing as a child. Then men had bumped into Mr. and Mrs. Enjolras, both prominent figures in the country club community, and began to chat with the former. Upon hearing their last name one man exclaimed: “Enjolras?! Ah, I believe my daughter and her boyfriend went to your son’s rally just on Saturday, if I’m not mistaken, that is. You must be so very proud of what he’s accomplished at such a young age in the political world!” to which Enjolras Sr. scoffed and stormed away. His wife nearly swanned off to comfort him until the Lord politely reached for her elbow and said he wanted to let her know that he meant no harm, and he wondered if, by any chance, he could talk with her son. She quickly slipped the men Enjolras’ cellphone number and scurried away.

“They were practically jumping at me,” Enjolras said, continuing the story from where the television had vaguely left off. The men called Enjolras and asked to meet him at the club. After civilly explaining that he’d never wish to set foot in “that disgusting array of conservative breeding ground”, the ten men and Enjolras agreed to meet in a nearby library.

“And?!” Courfeyrac shouted, growing impatient at Enjolras’ longwinded spiel. “What did the ten lords leaping do!?”

Grantaire and Combeferre shared a look riddled with shock and relief as Enjolras chuckled at Courfeyrac’s comment. “Money,” He laughed. The barricade boys looked worried. How could money be something that Enjolras was laughing about so light heartedly? Wasn’t Enjolras the one who spat at the mention of anything economically unsound, and who despised the trust fund families who acted like they cared? Nevertheless it seemed as if something had changed in the boy, and his friends were intrigued. “They offered their support. Not just money though, both parties were clear about that,” he laughed, happy and breathless. “They want to help me spread my message, and at first I was immensely skeptical-“

“No doubt you were,” Combeferre murmured, still unsure about the whole thing and thinking, maybe, the young man had actually gone mad.

Enjolras nodded and cleared his throat. “But the more I talked to these men, the more I saw that they could be trusted, and that we’d been ignorant to think that there couldn't be people that who believe in what we do, even if they’re not just like us!” The boys could feel a speech coming on and they grew weary.

“So, what’s the deal?” Grantaire broke in.

“There is no deal, my friend!” Grantaire shifted uneasily at the words, but Enjolras continued. “They just, they just want to help us! Maybe help host rallies in their towns and cities? I know it sounds crazy and I still don’t really believe it, but this could make the cause nationally acknowledged! This could be what makes it all happen!”

The group shifted as one. Someone coughed. Another scratched behind their ear. Silence.

“So, what you mean is, we’re back on?” Courfeyrac inquired, fixing his gaze on Combeferre and then back to Enjolras.

Enjolras smiled and turned to greet the whole group as one. “We’re back on, boys!” The Amis roared with approval and no slyly placed mistletoe was needed to encourage hugging or kissing, the group felt stable again.

-

“We still don’t have a new flat lined up,” Combeferre whispered to Enjolras in the kitchen over a cup of the mulled wine. The movie played in the living room and the boys seemed happy in their distant nest. Enjolras nodded and looked at his own glass. “But I’m really happy, mate. You know that. I’m really happy for you and the cause and us.” Enjolras smiled and nodded, now down from his good-news-high. They had six days until every trace of Les Amis had to be removed from the flat, and that meant only a couple days until the packing  _had_  to begin, but for the moment the serenity of a stable cause seemed to be enough for Enjolras, and that was enough for Combeferre. For now the ten Lords had saved the day.

**Eleven Pipers Piping**

“ _It’s CHRISTMASSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”_ Courfeyrac threw open his bedroom door and bathed the hallway with his glowing cheer.

“Eve,” Grantaire mumbled back, sulking past the excited boy on his way to make some Irish coffee.

“Oh, ‘Taire, you’re so swell!” Courfeyrac said back, swinging his arm around the miserable boy’s shoulder. Grantaire sputtered abashedly as if he’d never heard such words in his life, though we might be careful to doubt that he hadn’t. “It’s Christmas  _eve_ , yes, but the Christmas spirit is all a-“ the boy stopped right in his tracks.

Grantaire continued walking, letting Courfeyrac’s arm drop to his side, and turned to join a few of the other students in the kitchen. Courfeyrac exited the hallway and began to peer into the kitchen and Living room. “Where…” He began, losing his childish Christmas time shine. “Where are you all going?” Joly and Bossuet bustled by him with suitcases and wrapped gifts in hand. Courfeyrac stepped aside and let them pass, a frown growing deeper on his face. “It’s Christmas!”

“Eve,” Grantaire added, blowing on his coffee and heading back to his room. Courfeyrac grabbed the artist’s sleeve and a few drops of Grantaire’s steaming coffee washed over the cup’s lip and fell to the floor. The cynic swore. “I’m not part of this, don’t ask me,” He mumbled, a heavier tone of depression on his tongue. Despite his words, however, Grantaire stayed nearby, lurking in the shadows with his coffee at his chin while Courfeyrac ran to question his friends.

“We’re headed off to Manchester,” Joly explained, softly. He passed his bags to Bossuet and ruffled through the gifts he’d been carrying to deliver Courfeyrac’s to him. He handed Courfeyrac a small box with silver ribbon and blue wrapping paper, but Courfeyrac pushed it back at the pre-med student. “Courf, we’re not going to see you tomorrow, so just take it. Or put it under the tree and open it at midnight, either way.” Joly twisted his mouth and held the gift out. “We have to leave now or else we won’t get to Bossuet’s brothers until after dark.” Courfeyrac begrudgingly took the gift and glowered.

“Well, is everyone else staying, at least?” He turned to the group and welled up his best puppy eyes. They all, the pairs and trios, looked to the floor. “Wh-why??” He cried, walking into the kitchen to beg some more.

“I’m really sorry, Courf, I thought you knew we were going home,” Marius said, rubbing his friend’s back. They’d lived together the year earlier and had enjoyed a wild and festive Christmas, one to remember, but since then Marius had met Cosette and things had changed for the once inseparable duo.  “Mr. Valjean went back to Australia to visit his nephew and sister so I’m staying with Cosette at her flat.” He paused and tried not to become emotional; guilt, even if it wasn’t due, always made him cry. “Why aren’t you going home?”

Courfeyrac looked around at his friends who just shrugged and cradled their coffee and tea closer. “I couldn’t afford the ticket, it’s a couple hundred around this time of the year,” Courf reminded them sadly.

“And since my only fellow Irishman,” Combeferre said, appearing in the archway, “even if he isn’t a  _real_ Irishman,” he jokingly added, “couldn’t go home, I’d decided to stay.” He smiled at Courf from across the kitchen, but the boy only meekly nodded back. “And of course Enjolras wants nothing to do with his family, so it isn’t all that bad, Courf,” he reminded the boy.

“See?! Isn’t that great? The trio together for Christmas! And who else? Are ‘Ponine and Gav coming over tonight?” Bossuet sang with a little too much forced enthusiasm.

“They flew to The Isle of Man last night, they have some extended family there,” Grantaire said, from the shadows. “So, look at that, kid. I’ll be sticking around, too.”

“You are?” Enjolras asked with a mix of feeling. He entered the kitchen on edge and slightly confused, new to the conversation and situation. “And where are you all going?” He questioned, though not nearly as concerned as Courfeyrac who now sat in a bitter ball of misery on a kitchen stool next to the counter.

“Oh, they’re all going home, Enj! All of them! I mean, you and ‘Ferre and R are staying, but they’re all leaving! We were supposed to have a hullabaloo of a party!”

“Hey, while we’re talking about going home, anyone wanna drop me off in Scottland?” Bahorel entered the kitchen with a garbage bag of what one might only guess was clothing and toiletries, but it also could have been a dead body, or a litter of sleeping puppies. One never knew with Bahorel.

“Bear,” Combeferre began. Enjolras looked at him with shifted eyes and finally chuckled and went on with making his morning coffee. “You know,” The Guide added slowly, “Scotland isn’t really, erm,  _on the way_ to anywhere.”  Bahorel shrugged and took a bite of a soggy blueberry muffin that came from who-knows-where. “Also, you’re Welsh, why are you going to Scotland for the holiday?”

“Well, you see, I always felt this connection to the Scots, and-“

Courfeyrac moaned and smacked his face onto the cool marble countertop. “It doesn’t matter why he’s going, or where he’s going, he’s leaving. They’re all leaving.” Jehan patted the boy’s hair and rubbed his hand softly.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Jehan whispered in his angelic voice. Courfeyrac turned his head and peeked through brunet curls to look at the poet and knitted his eyebrows as if to ask what Jehan meant. “None of you replied to my invitation-“

“Invitation?!” A few boys shouted.

“Yes, I slipped a poem underneath your doors 11 days ago, the night before we got Patria and no one replied, but that’s okay, I understand that you all have your families to visit.” He said all this while rocking a cup of tea back and forth, watching the residual leaves form a spiral tunnel in the water. A sad smile twitched on his lips.

“ _That’s_  what that was?” Bahorel laughed, “I thought you just wanted to share a poem with us, not that it made any sense anyways.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t understand Greek-era stanzas and Bucolic poetry! I just wanted you all to come down for Christmas!” Jehan cried, pressing his palms into the book in front of him as he slammed it closed.  Everyone jerked back in shock, not because his outburst was particularly violent, but because any outburst from Jean Prouvaire was immensely unexpected and stunning.

“Down?” Enjolras asked, pushing away the event that still held many of the Amis captive. “You’re not from London?”

“I’m from Devon,” Jehan sighed, slightly disappointed that his friend didn’t know that already. “I know it’s pretty far away, but I’d talked to my family and they said they’d be more than happy to meet you all and host you for as long as you’d all like to stay. But like I said, you all have your plans so it’s fine, it really doesn’t matter.” He stood gently to put his tea in the sink. Jehan was a boy with lightness and romantic innocence, but the boys knew that the lightness he was so loved for was often extinguished by his own doubts and musings. His words, slow and voiceless, were that of the land of nothingness they all wished to keep him from. This thought ran through all their minds in unison, but it wasn’t what led Courfeyrac to speak next.

“I’d like to come,” Courfeyrac said, lifting his head now from the counter. “If it’s not too late, of course.” Jehan smiled.

“Me, too.” Bahorel said, dropping his garbage bag to the floor. A stick of deodorant rolled out.  _So, not a body or litter of puppies._

“And me, definitely,” Bossuet added, shooting an encouraging look to Joly.

“Yeah, Bossuet has an excess number of nephews and nieces who undoubtingly are carrying a wide variety of influenza strains, anyway. This sounds, er, safer.” He left his suitcases and joined the group of boys.

“No doubt I’ll be coming,” Combeferre joined in, elbowing Enjolras in the side.

“Right, of course, I’d be happy to come as well, Jean,” Enjolras smiled gently. “And I can fit a few people in my car, so there’s that.”

“Count me in,” Grantaire called with convenient timing, withdrawing from the corner and wrapping an arm around Jehan’s thin shoulders. “I’m positive Feuilly will want to come, he’s got the day off tomorrow, but that'll mean we cant leave until he gets home. I’ll text him.”

The boys buzzed with excitement and questions. Those remaining agreed to come, Marius finally gave in and agreed Cosette might as well, and car arrangements were drawn out. It was agreed, at first light tomorrow they'd embark on their journey to Devon. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras found themselves alone in the kitchen once the other boys went to pack, unpack, and decide what one might wear on a trip to Devon. “It could have been quite fun,” Enjolras said, sipping on coffee in his new, gold rimmed cup. “The trio back together for Christmas once more, like back in prep.” He looked at his friends over his drink, and smiled bringing it back down level with his belly.

“Grantaire would have been here, as well,” Combeferre added.

“And Feuilly,” Enjolras reminded him, unhappy with his friend’s tone.

“You two could have spent Christmas eve together,” Courfeyrac sang, swaying and wrapping an arm around his friend’s waist. “Because ‘Ferre and I would have conveniently gone off to buy a last minute gift,” he winked at The Guide.

Combeferre chuckled, truly hesitant to join in, but alas he was unable to resist. “And somehow you’d find yourselves ice skating in the city center, one of you would stumble and the other would catch him before he could fall.”

“Ooh, nice one!” Courfeyrac laughed. “And then when the clock struck midnight, you’d turn to Grantaire and say, ‘you know, ‘Taire, all I  _really_ wanted for Christmas was’-“

“Enough,” Enjolras nearly shouted, pushing Courfeyrac off his side. He was blushing wildly and it was only partially because he was furious with his friends. “That’s enough, and that’s silly and… and it doesn’t even matter. We’re off to Devon, God help us, and it’ll be enjoyable for the whole group.”

“I hope so,” Grantaire chuckled, slipping into the kitchen to inspect the refrigerator’s contents. Enjolras blushed, for a moment unsure of what Grantaire was referring to.  He swallowed and shook the thought away. “Cider,  _Guide_?” The cynic said with sarcasm on his tongue. His arm fell heavily over Enjolras’s shoulder, for the boy had kept his back to Grantaire the entire awkward moment, producing a hard cider for The Guide to take. It hung from his paint stained hand, swaying slightly.

Enjolras gingerly reached up to take it, and Grantaire swiftly withdrew his own empty hand. “You all packed?” Combeferre asked Grantaire if only to break the stifling silence. The boy nodded, taking a deep swig of his own cider. In his left hand he held a six pack of beer, and he lifted it to answer Combeferre’s question.

Enjolras, understanding what Grantaire suggested, frowned. Creases folded around his eyes, wrinkling his marble face. “Please,” he sighed, turning now to look directly at the Cynic. Their eyes met, one shining with the blue light of a seaside tide pool and the other with the blue depth and darkness of Van Gogh’s Starry night. They stood like this, Enjolras holding his unopened cider and Grantaire standing in the cool bath of the open refrigerator, for a few moments, in silence. Then Combeferre cleared his throat, Grantaire slammed the refrigerator door closed and sulked out of the room, Enjolras turned with a pursed mouth back to his friends. “Please, for my sanity, tell me you didn’t put Grantaire in my car.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre simply smiled at one another and began to walk out of the kitchen, they did, after all, have their own packing to do. “It’ll be fine, Enj,” Combeferre said, patting the boy’s shoulder reassuringly.

“It’ll be fun, Enj!” Courfeyrac yelled up the hall. The two entered their own bedrooms and left Enjolras alone in the silent kitchen. He looked down at the bottle in his hands and turned it, wiping away the condensation. With a quick tap on the stove handle the bottle cap flew off onto the air, Enjolras took a swing, and prayed that the following day might actually go mildly well. 

**Twelve Drummers Drumming**

Had the boys been residing in Birmingham for the past three years the sole reason leading to today’s events may have been the slightest bit more understandable, but the truth is they did not live in Birmingham and Bahorel had finally gotten on Enjolras’ last nerve. The chaos that was soon to ensue began with five words uttered from the back seat of Enjolras’ car: “I wanna see the beach”.

And so it began.

The boys had been driving on A39 for several irritating hours which could have been enjoyable had they not included Bahorel, Jehan and Grantaire squeezed into the pint-sized back seat of Enjolras’ car singing Christmas carols as loudly and boisterously as possible. Enjolras had simply ground his teeth for the first hour of it, Combeferre giving him pleading looks to please hold his tongue, but it continued on past Bath and Bristol and down along the coast. And then it stopped.

"I wanna see the beach," Bahorel had said. The two cars carrying the Amis-plus-Cosette had just left the petrol station after Cosette’s convent owned minivan had begun to steam disconcertingly. Feuilly checked out the engine while the others bought every bag of crisps that inhabited the flimsy shelves, they embarked once again toward Devon, and then Bahorel announced his intense need.

"You live on an island, Bear," Combeferre replied, turning in the passenger seat to look at the pack like a parent about to scold his children, about to "turn this car around", about to encourage a car game. "You literally live an hour or so away from the sea, and it’s freezing, why would you want to go to the beach?"

Bahorel shrugged and laughed something about his “thirst for the sea”. Apparently their companion car felt the same as Bahorel, because after a text sent from one to the other, Enjolras heard a cacophony of beeping and looked back to see Miss Fauchelevent had turned her right blinker on. Courfeyrac waved from her backseat, apparently the cause of the beeping assault. Enjolras sighed and turned right, off the the highway and onto the fairly deserted main road. “The seaaaa!!!” Bahorel shouted, banging his knees into the back of Enjolras’ seat.

"I think we’ve gone in a circle," Grantaire called softly from the back seat. "We just passed that cafe twice." Combeferre nodded and said he’d noticed the same thing, but that he was either going crazy or they looked differently the first and second times being passed. Enjolras huffed, and swore to himself they were all going insane.

"We aren’t going in a circle!" Enjolras snapped. Combeferre had warned the other boys their leader was a nervous and angry driver, but Enj insisted on driving his own car and not even Combeferre could change that. "We are literally going straight on this road." He slammed on his breaks, the boys were flung forward, and they moaned disagreeably. "Where did Cosette go?"

The boys unbuckled their straps and turned to look. There, fifty yards back, Cosette’s car sat in the middle of Main Street with Feuilly under the hood and Marius comforting a crying Cosette.

"We can’t stop now! The sea is right there! I can almost see it!" Bahorel cried, bursting through the car door and struggling with his seatbelt which had caught around his ankle. "See, sea, see, sea" he laughed heartily as Jehan unbound his leg. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes, pulled over to the curb and joined Combeferre on the sidewalk. “What do we do? We can’t just stand out here, it’s beginning to rain and… God this is a mess.”

"I guess we’ll have to call a tow man, let Bahorel see the water, find somewhere to sit until then? I don’t know, Enj, I really don’t know."

"This is an absolute disaster. I could be back at the flat looking for somewhere to move but we are here in his godforsaken tourist town and-" Enjolras stopped, he had caught sight of his friends, and there was disaster control to be conducted. "What are you doing?" Enjolras shouted, quickly approaching a bad scene. The sky began to let loose a torrent of rain.

Courfeyrac was pounding on the door of a small cafe, in the back there was a hint of a light, and apparently that was enough to fuel the boy’s search for shelter. Nearby Bossuet stood giggling at a sign next door of a pregnant woman in, put nicely, an odd position while Joly tried to explain to him the wonders of alternative medicine, which was the subject of the shop. “Trying to break down the door, apparently,” Grantaire said by Enjolras’ shoulder when courfeyrac didn’t respond. The cynic pulled Bahorel back when he went to join in on the knocking, worried he’d break through the glass.

"If you look closely," Bahorel boomed over the rain, "you can see my homeland!" He sheltered his eyes from the rain with a broad hand and pointed to the bay where, yes, somehow, the boys could see Wales through the rain. 

"Right, good, you saw the sea, saw Wales, now did anyone call a towman?" Enjolras said, gruffly, totally done and over with this horrible Christmas Day. But no one replied, yet again, because another light had come on in the cafe. From the darkness behind the counter appeared a girl whose red hair sported a yellow paper crown, and who carried a cellphone with 999 already dialed, only waiting to press the "send" button.

She approached the class door and pointed to the crooked “closed sign”. The soaked boys pleaded all at once, their voices mixing with the rain and each other’s cries. Enjolras rolled his eyes and pushed through the group. “Excuse me, miss,” he shouted. Even so his voice was muffled by the storm and the glass. “We just need somewhere to stay until someone can come and help us. Please, I promise you we won’t make a mess, all we need is somewhere dry.” The girl frowned and shifted in her Wellies. She was perceivably uncomfortable and Enjolras felt bad for putting her in such a position: ten young men plus a girlfriend asking for shelter from a young girl. Enjolras straightened, gave his most dazzling smile, which the girl nearly swooned at, and reached behind him for Cosette, who he practically pushed into the glass as a peace offering. Cosette smiled and gave a little wave.

The red haired girl and her paper crown nodded a little and she opened the door a crack. “I’m meant to be uptown,” she said, opening the door a little more. “If we were celebrating here I’d be happy to help, but I was just getting ready, and my dad’s not here,” her voice faded away. The boys looked at her like a litter of sopping puppies. Raindrops trailed off Grantaire’s hanging curls into his nose and he pushed the mop hair away from his face. Combeferre removed his glasses and unsuccessfully tried to wipe the water from them. The girl struggled with her guilt and finally gave it. The door opened and the boys shouted their “thank you”s.

Courfeyrac began to shed his layers, heavy with rainwater, Marius and the girl blushed when his thin T-shirt stuck to his last jumper and rode up on his back. Grantaire picked a chair nearest the large glass windows and slumped sadly, wondering if it’d be inappropriate to ask the girl for some beer; he couldn’t tell if she was 17 or 24, but either way, he wished he hadn’t left this flask locked in Enjolras’ car. 

The girl stood shyly in the corner, unsure of what to do. The boys and Cosette began to settle down in the cafe, pushing chairs noisily around a cluster of tables. Enjolras’ promise had already been broken. Combeferre excused himself from the cafe and went to call the tow man, and Enjolras decided it was time to introduce, apologize and possibly bribe. “Hello, my name is Enjolras,” he said, holding his hand out to the girl by the drink cooler. She gingerly lifted her hand to his and tightened her grip on the blackberry in the other. 

"I’m Becca," she said, shaking his hand and trying, with all her might, to not to stare at his luxurious golden curls and the way it twisted around his ears and at the muscular arc where his toned neck met his shoulders, or how his teeth were more than perfect, impossibly white and straight. She tried and failed, and then remembered she had to make sure not to get killed, find some way to get rid of these odd men, and somehow get to her relatives uptown. "There- there’s a garage next door, they’re closed right now but I think I might have their number. That might help?" 

Enjolras let go of her hand and nodded. He waved Combeferre over from the door where he’d just finished on the phone. “This is Combeferre,” Enjolras motioned to the other boy. He smiled, adjusted his glasses and offered his hand to shake. 

"Enjolras," Combeferre turned to his friend and began to whisper. "I just called. They can’t come until seven tonight." Enjolras’s smile dropped and he looked at the girl then back to his mate.

The girl shifted uncomfortably and the other boys laughed at some off joke. “Listen,” Enjolras ran a tense hand over his stressed face. He turned back to the girl and put on his best politician face. “If I give you two hundred pounds will you give us whatever crisps you have back there, a place to sit, and,” he looked around quickly, “I’ll chip in fifty pound for access to the drinks in that cooler, maybe some tea, as well.”

——

Ten minutes later the girl had finally gathered the presents she had stayed behind to pack while her family went on to drop off plum puddings and indifferent brothers. She stood with full arms at her front door while two black cats meowed at her feet. With great effort she tried to decide what to do with the unique bunch of boys downstairs. And downstairs the cafe was a mess. Bags of crisps lay open and scattered. Someone had stolen Enjolras’ keys and helped Grantaire retrieve his plentiful stash of booze, so beer bottles lay with soda bottles on the tables and floor. Combeferre tiptoed around with a trash bag, trying to keep the place fairly clean, but he was failing despite his immense efforts.

"Okay, okay, one more. If, erm, nah, ‘would you rather’ Hermione or Fleur?" A choir of conflicting answers rang through the cafe. "Seriously?! How could you not say Hermione!?" Joly shouted from his seat next to Bossuet.

"But, have you seen Fleur?" Grantaire called from his corner. 

"I agree with Joly on this one, actually," Combeferre said, straightening his back and pausing his clean up efforts. 

"That’s because you’re basically the real life gender bent version of her, ‘Ferre," Courfeyrac laughed. "Oh, man. Oh, no. Now I ship it." 

The boys laughed and cheered to it, drinking from their various flavored fizzy drinks, ciders and beers. Enjolras leaned back in his chair and smiled, crossing his arms and legs like Father Christmas. “What’s gotten you into such a good mood, Enj?” Combeferre said through the cheers, slowly sitting next to his best friend. He offered Enjolras a beer.

"I just got a call," Enjolras smiled. He saw the crowned girl enter the cafe and he have a little wave, she waved back meekly. "I just got a call from the landlord. And," he flipped his phone to show the number, "and he said that there’s another flat he owns," he smiled slyly and continued cryptically "that has a few more rooms, maybe, possibly, probably perfect for Eponine to share with Gav, and perfect for Feuilly to stop sharing with Jehan, because of their different schedules, of course, and it would be ready for us upon our return."

"What an interesting call," Combeferre said, smiling. 

"Indeed."

—-

The tow man didn’t come until ten that night. Had Enjolras been sitting in his kitchen at home just the day earlier, trying to decide whether to visit Jehan’s family in Devon or not, and the facts about today had been revealed, he would have vetoed the decision to go. Bossuet would have gone with Joly to Manchester, Bahorel to who-knows-where. Jehan would be just a few miles further south at his house, Combeferre and Courf would be at a movie matinee and Enjolras and Grantaire would be avoiding one another the entire day as the only ones left home. 

But there was only hindsight to be had and now Enjolras would admit he wouldn’t change much about the day. He might have picked a different cafe to break down in front of, so he wouldn’t have made a young woman two hours late to her family function, he might have made Bahorel drive in Cosette’s car, and he might have insisted Courfeyrac put up his mistletoe earlier, so it wouldn’t have taken nearly seven hours of partying, drinking and “would you rather” for Enjolras and Grantaire to orbit toward one another in the precise spot where a mischievous Center had placed a sprig of holy. 

Christmas music from Courfeyracs phone played loudly and the boys laughed, standing in a sloppy circle, chatting and drinking the night away.  In a branch, in a pinched off portion of the circle, Grantaire turned to Enjolras. “Would you rather,” he began.

"I don’t play that game," Enjolras shouted over the cacophony of Amis. The look in Grantaire’s eyes, glazed and roguish, but somehow welcoming in the most confusing of ways, let Enjolras know he didn’t have a choice.

A small clang of the glass door quieted them all down, the ginger girl had returned, but she now carried a tray full of leftovers. “I just wanted to make sure you were all well off, I thought you might be gone by now, though.”

The boys crowded around her happily and took the tray. Courfeyrac, who had been downright jovial since hearing the news of the flat, ran up to the girl and flung his arm around her shoulder. “We’re playing a game, you should join!” The festivities continued, the noise only increasing, around Grantaire and Enjolras.

"Would you rather," Grantaire began again. He leaned closer and let his hand find Enjolras’ hip. "Would you rather admit I’m right in being a cynic,  _orrrr_ , look up.” He popped his lips on the p of up and grinned. Enjolras stared at him, confused, but he hadn’t removed Grantaire’s hand from his, now dried of rain, hip, which the cynic took as promising.

The leader took a step closer and began to speak with a raised eyebrow. “I understand that you don’t believe in the cause,” he whispered, teasingly, “and I think,” he said even slower, “that you’re a total wanker, and why would I not want to look,” his words were fast and free, the blame partially being the bottles of beer he’d secretly accepted but more so because Granaitre’s hand had slipped to the small of his back and the racing of Enjolras’ heart sped his words. No racing heart, however, could have made the slowly spoken “up” be released any faster, or any louder, from Enjolras’s loose lips. He whispered and blinked.

"I’d rather look up," he finally said, his long neck arched back and his dazzling blue eyes pinned on the mistletoe hanging directly above him. 

Grantaire smiled. From the center of the Amis courfeyrac rose his beer to his eleven friends. Some were new, like the ginger girl -with a big jumper and paper crown who accepted the bottle of beer unsure and hesitantly, but proved to have promising skill in their current Christmas pub quiz- some were ages old all the way from the homeland like Combeferre, and all the rest were in between, but he loved them all, and his smile showed it. The twelve young ones beat on the table, drumming bottles and hands, a drumroll for what was to come. “Happy Christmas, one and all!” He shouted as loudly as his lungs would allow, tipping his dark curls back and lifting his drink in the air. The boys lifted their bottles, as did the girls, and the all sang out in return. “HAPPY CHRISTMAS!”

Grantaire and Enjolras lifted their bottles toward the center as well, but with a lifted arm Enjolras dropped his gaze, and placed a kiss on Grantaire’s warm lips. The last twelve days flooded his mind, every moment the two shared suddenly meant so much more, the tree, the swans, the cafes, the rally and jail, the whispers and socks. He kissed harder. “Happy Christmas,” he said once they had parted with a smile and intention of another stolen kiss.

"Happy Christmas, Apollo."

 

 

 


End file.
